07-05-2013, 02:41 PM
The woman that walks with Jack is shorter by an inch or two, but smaller and slimmer. Somehow, she seems more dangerous. Her presence is unsettling in a way that is wholly different from Rage. Rage is power, anger, ferocity. Ingrid is different. The humans that see her give her a wide berth. Somehow, when they look at this elegant, classy woman in her plainclothes - sky blue short-sleeved shirt with a wide, wide neckline, skinny black jeans tucked into black leather ankle-boots as fashionable as they are sensible - they think of wilder things. She is a jungle cat in human skin, always ready to pounce and tear out someone's jugular with her flat, human teeth.
This feeling she gives off, it's not helped by the way she moves, with a predatory, preternatural grace. It always feels like she's stalking something, although now she seems more sedate. The predator has hunted. The humans are safe for another day.
She should smell terrible. Jack does, in fact he smells worse than usual. He smells like sulfur and feces and old dead things. He smells like the sewer they've both recently vacated, though perhaps also like the wind of his having traveled by motorcycle. Ingrid smells like nothing. Not like the sewer, not like perfume, not like sweat or skin or blood.She is a phantom to the senses.
They need to be cleansed, he'd said, and he knew someone who could do it. That had been the lure to get her to point her little black Nissan in this direction. She stops in a doorway on the way in, stops and looks around. Her hair is short and dark with sun-lightened highlights of lighter brown and falls around her heart-shaped face in choppy segments. Her eyes are hidden by a pair of very large, very round, very dark sunglasses, obscuring her expression as she takes in her surroundings.
This feeling she gives off, it's not helped by the way she moves, with a predatory, preternatural grace. It always feels like she's stalking something, although now she seems more sedate. The predator has hunted. The humans are safe for another day.
She should smell terrible. Jack does, in fact he smells worse than usual. He smells like sulfur and feces and old dead things. He smells like the sewer they've both recently vacated, though perhaps also like the wind of his having traveled by motorcycle. Ingrid smells like nothing. Not like the sewer, not like perfume, not like sweat or skin or blood.She is a phantom to the senses.
They need to be cleansed, he'd said, and he knew someone who could do it. That had been the lure to get her to point her little black Nissan in this direction. She stops in a doorway on the way in, stops and looks around. Her hair is short and dark with sun-lightened highlights of lighter brown and falls around her heart-shaped face in choppy segments. Her eyes are hidden by a pair of very large, very round, very dark sunglasses, obscuring her expression as she takes in her surroundings.